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User blog:CuteLunaMoon/Chapter 9: A few good men
Journal of viscount Frederick IV Albert Von Mauve. Through a crumbling slope on the left side of the Great Bridge, I slide down to the residential area below and safely land on a weatherworn rooftop. Being a half-transformed lycanthrope has its perks: my reflex, senses and acrobatic are somehow greatly increased. But, it was not a blessing but rather a dreadful curse: an overwhelming, insatiable thirst for blood has been at times taken over me. Like an opportunist, the beast within lies in wait, and when I'm overwhelmed by the pain and fear, it seeps through its cage and takes control. And with each manifestation, I feel I'm less like Frederick and be more like a flesh-hungry werewolf. I manoeuver my way through a series of broken chimneys and collapsed rooftop, and descend to the street through a small gap between two crumble, ivy-covered houses. Some loose tiles fall and break on to the cobblestone street. Beside my loud approach, the aqueduct is dreadfully silent. Somewhere far away, comes the barks of a hunting dog. It is then picked up by another dog, and another and another after it. I tread lightly towards the gaslight-lit main street. There's not a single soul nor a dim light of a torch in a hundred yard ahead. Here and there, through the hazy veil of fog, lies several weather-beaten chariots, which lacks neither driver nor pulling horses. Gascoigne is a local hunter, so pretty sure he's not unfamiliar with the streets here. So there's no reason I have to hurry. In the road lay a group of seven charred beast patient bodies close together, burnt to death by the hunters. Here and there are things they have dropped: empty Blood Vials, ragged garbs and empty bullet case. There're no beasts, no deranged townfolks around this corner. I unpack my travel bag and take out a small pouch of jerky. I got this one from the corpse of a huntsman I killed earlier. Normally I would not bother trying this lowly peasant food, but I'm not in Nothingharm anymore. I lay my back against a street light pole and chew on the dry meat. The texture is hard and dry, and, not a big surprise-- unpleasant. Between chewing, my tongue detects something inedible and I spit out a clump of fur, which gives a hint of the starling origin of the jerky. The dim light from the windows and the gaslight, combine with the ambience of this part of Yharnam somehow give me comfort. "On the nights of the hunt, the inhabitants were ordered to keep lights burning in the windows of all houses that faced the streets" -- A note of a hunter preceded me. " Ein Jäger, bist du?"(German) "A hunter, are ya?" Said a man from behind me, " Und immer noch gesund?" (German) "And still healthy?" I turn around and see a couple of battered watchmen, half-man, half-beast. In old towns like Yharnam, the watchmen often double as lamplighters A lamplighter is a person employed to light and maintain street lights. Very few exist today as most street lighting has long been replaced by electric lamps., I could see two of them are carrying a ladder and the one who leads bearing a torch. I lift my hat in response, though I don't understand what they say. Perhaps they find some kinship in my state of infection or they mistake me for a local hunter? " Not from around here," I say, expecting an attack. The watchmen, however, dutifully lit the lamps that have been blown off and ignore me. After they finish their work, they walk past me, the leading one pauses for a moment. He then reaches into his pocket and pulls out something. I, of course, immediately jump back and pull out my dagger. And to my surprise, the object the watchman pulled out wasn't a gun, but rather a waterskin. " It's a little cold tonight, take this." He says warmly. I see a faint smirk running on his companions' beastly face. " Go ahead. It's just warm Blood Cocktail" He waves the waterskin lightly. I take the waterskin, open its top and take a mouthful gulp. Thick and pungent blood, not the poor quality ones the ordinary huntsmen often carry around. The brandy and produce a queer sting on my tongue and an unearthly euphoria immediately kicks in. I try my best not to drink another gulp and return the waterskin to its owner. " Thank you, most surprising," I say lightly and " Gute Jagd"(German) "Good Hunting" The lead watchman says and they turn away. "Wait," I say " Doesn't it too dangerous to go out on a night of the hunt?" They pause, then turn back and reply " Someone needs to keep everything in place. We keep the lamps lit, hunters like you hunt beasts. This city's no longer in its golden age, we know, but don't you see our state of infection? Will there be a place for us to move to without being rounded up and sent to the pyre?... This is our only home, stranger." The leader looks at me meaningfully for a second or two, " And soon, it will be yours. If we don't do our duty, this place will soon fall apart. Good hunting. " Strange folks, I think while watching them disappear into the veil of fog. But, to think, they are the ones to be respected. But my thoughts are soon distracted by a group of deranged huntsman walk by. " Curse this fog, it's too thick and damp." A torchbearer says. " My pa won't like this. The blood minister said his lung cannot handle this dampness well." One Replies to another. " Look, an outsider!" One shout and point his finger at me. " and infected!" I expect an attack. But they, too, refrain from fighting. They throw at me hateful looks, some even spit the ground as they walk past, but rather than that and some verbal mocking, they walk by peacefully. Ever since my infection started to physically manifest, I noticed that most of the sane huntsmen would not attack unless provoked. After all, we will soon be scratching flees in the moonlit nights. After likely half an hour walking feverishly eastward, a stench hit my nose and I'm sure that I have made it to the canal below the Great Bridge. Tonight, the canal is shallow, despite the full moon hanging on the starry sky. And thus, the water is putrid black and somewhat stink. And I have no choice but to walk into the ankle-deep, sticky and smelly water. Suddenly, a hand grab my left knee and the raking nails bites into my flesh painfully. I yank my left leg from the iron grip of the ambusher and slash my whip at him. To my horror, the one -- or to be exact, the thing that attacked me was a terribly rotten corpse. Carrion beetles and maggots crawling all over its decaying face. The strike dismembered its left hand and disgustingly forced a few more vermins dropping out from its empty eye sockets. Lacking the lower body and left hand, it crawls at me, albeit in snail pace because of the amputation. I aim carefully and give its head a powerful, swift kick. I hear something snaps and the corpse's skull fly crashing into the wall. Its headless body collapse. To my surprise, the corpse wears a torn hunter attire, and after swatting a horde of maggots and decomposing matter aside, I find some rusty throwing daggers and a small leather parchment in the garb. Strangely enough, the Hunter's Mark --dangling, upside-down rune etched in the mind of a hunter, is painted on it. But before I could carefully examine the parchment, more Rotten Corpses scurrying towards me and I have to dispatch them all. After finishing the last of the undead horde, I loot them. The dirty job yields little rewards: an antique device of some sort, a rusty pistol -- probably it has been in the water for a year or two, several more rusty beyond usage pennies and a pair of golden earrings --luckily still in good condition. Gold never rot, or so they say. Leaving the putrescent remains of the fallen hunters behind, I tread sluggishly in the thick, muddy water to get out of the sewer. Soon, the blackish, fetid water dilutes, gives place to a cleaner, less niffy water. I find a ladder leads up to an old warehouse of some sort and decide to give it a try. Through a broken window pane, I see a torchlight inside an old house. Gascoigne, perhaps? The house seems deserted, but once I get inside, I quickly find out that's the light from the torch of a large huntsman. He's accompanied by another two other of his kin, and two half-transformed gunners. The Large huntsmen are the infected who has begun their transformation into a scourge Beast. They are larger, taller and stronger than regular huntsmen and incapable of speaking. The house perhaps served as a repair dock or so, there are several boats lying in the canal in the middle of the house, and rows of barrels and bags filled the place. Since the guards are quite many and seem to be unfriendly sort, I silently retreat. But just before I go pass the door, something hanging from the ceiling caught my attention. I take out the monoscope and find out that it's a hanged corpse of a hunter, and he chained to the ceiling, along with his weapon-- a Saw Spear. Since I already have a bad experience with the Threaded Cane, I decide to take the weapon. With little difficulty, I climb on the roof the dock and force myself through a big gap where the tiles are missing. Treading on the beams of the structure, I walk towards the corpse and cut it loose from the chain. The poor guy lands on the murky water down in the canal, splashing some sticky, putrid black water on the old, broken boats lie nearby. The sound immediately draws the attention of the folks guarding the place so I crawl very silently towards a large balcony leftward, hoping to find an easy way down there. "Oh, a hunter, are ya? And an outsider? What a mess you've been caught up in. And tonight, of all nights..." comes a voice of a woman. I throw my gaze to the clearing between the barrels and see a plague doctor, clad in strangely crow feather attire. The woman introduces herself as Eileen the crow, an old hunter. She then gives me some small leather parchments as greeting gifts, which I recognise as the parchment I got earlier from the rotten corpses. "Bold Hunter's Mark. Allows us hunters to awaken again without losing Blood Echoes, a trick that seems nearly too good to be true." She says. I hold mine in front of her " I got this from the ghoul-like things in the sewer... So" " They are our predecessors..." Eileen answers lightly and looks away. She seems not in the mood for more conversation, so I press on. As I expected earlier, the guardians of this dock are not the friendly sort, and I have no choice but to kill them all to get the Saw Spear. Get out of the dock, I move southward, after dispatching several more deranged townfolks and narrowly escaping a deadly boulder trap, I reach a small cemetery at the back of the Cathedral Ward. Probably this is Oedon's Tomb, I recall a note of an old hunter. First, I thought there was no one here, until I notice a silhouette of someone, doing some sort of labour in the obfuscating veil of fog. The air is stink of blood and beast. And the closer I get to the figure, the stronger the stench. He's standing amidst a dozen of werewolf corpses and is busy butchering them. I walk closer and closer until I recognise a familiar face. " Old hunter Gascoigne, I presume?" I ask. Gascoigne chops off the head of one corpse and turns towards me. He seems much larger than he was before. " Beast all over the shop... You will be one of them, sooner or later." He lets out an inhuman snarl, and I don't expect this is a friendly sign. I extend my Saw Spear and reload my quickly jam a Quicksilver bullet down my flintlock pistol's barrel. Wasting no time, Gascoigne charges. Explanation Category:Blog posts